Toxic Smiles
by Imogen Kain
Summary: Madness is an epidemic in this city - and there's only so much room in Arkham Asylum. A Gotham-based origin story, but maybe not the one you're expecting. Joker romance (for lack of a better term).


**Hey guys.**

**Welp, I'm trying a new Joker story. I'm really excited to take a bit of a departure from **_You Can't Spell Slaughter without Laughter_** and **_Caligula in Red_** and dive into a new relationship between the Joker and a girl who is (hopefully) quite different than my OC in the other stories.**

**This is an origin story, but hopefully not like the ones you've already read. It's set probably around five years before the beginning of **Dark Knight**, when practically none of our favorite heroes and villains were practicing their prospective arts. I plan to include a lot of familiar faces, and I'm taking quite a bit of artistic freedom with it, but still trying to keep it true to the feel of Nolan's Gotham. So these plots won't quite be like what you've read in the comic. Let me know how you feel about it.**

**Thanks for reading!**

* * *

A gust of February wind delivered the scent of expensive perfume to the man concealed beneath the silver Mercedes Benz. He took a deep breath, turned his face towards the smell and scanned the oily concrete floor intently for any signs of approaching feet. Perhaps being less prudent than the circumstances dictated, he hummed under his breath—hushed, off-key and light-hearted to suit his mood—while the parking garage sat still and dark around him.

But the whistling of wind, the rattle of dead leaves it brought with it, masked most of his noise. He chuckled softly as he made the final adjustments on the wires—finishing a task he was being paid handsomely to perform.

The man had every reason to be in good spirits, as anyone might be when their hard work is rewarded and their beliefs in life are confirmed. Despite having very few core values, and even less of that particularly hilarious impression called 'faith', recent events had proven the ideals he _did _hold to be remarkably accurate.

To begin with, he'd come to infer that people in general were idiots – savage, evil creatures who allowed their base emotions to get the best of them, regardless of circumstance. He'd been shown, time and time again, that no matter the level of assumed civility, no matter how refined and seemingly content a person was, the ugliness writhing within every human on the planet would emerge once provoked. Perhaps most importantly, the man knew that this ugliness could be harnessed, channeled, even profited from.

People were also cowards. _This_ trait was where the profit came in.

Because when the malice of envy, greed and rage reared their omnipresent heads – and they always did – people took action. Inevitably, the more civil a man considered himself to be, the less willing he was to directly act on his deepest desires. Instead of dirtying their own hands, the rich and powerful – or sometimes even the not-so-rich but well connected – found other ways to have their injustices served.

And so, you see, this man was utilizing his own unique and well-honed skill set to do another man's bidding. Knowing his action would ultimately serve his own ends, it didn't _really_ bother him that, for now, he was playing the role of a pawn.

A King in disguise.

The scent of perfume strengthened as the clicking of ridiculously expensive and equally uncomfortable designer stilettos advanced towards him across the concrete of the parking garage. The man slid noiselessly from under the car, the back of his black blazer scraping along the filthy ground. He paused a moment, leaning against the Mercedes, to wipe the oil from his hands and sneer at a spot of grease on his pants leg.

_You'd think Miss Heiress would pick a cleaner place to park…_

The owner of the shoes neared her vehicle as the man crept soundlessly towards his own. He unlocked his car and jumped in, imagining the rich woman glancing with undisguised curiosity and disgust at his beat up black Buick. The thoughts would then flit from her mind. She would certainly never return to the question of _his_ identity.

The man turned the engine over three times before it finally started. Pulling out of the parking space, he watched through his window as the owner of those expensive shoes and that expensive perfume got into her expensive car. He shifted into drive and steered towards the exit, pausing for a moment to glance in his rearview mirror and watch the fruition of his hard work.

The fireball which erupted from the woman's silver Mercedes set off dozens of car alarms in the vicinity, the percussion shattering windows and rattling even the frame of his vehicle. He raised his eyebrows at the scene, mildly surprised at the strength of his own explosives. As the fire suppression system turned on and water rained down on his car, the man calmly turned on his windshield wipers and drove away.

* * *

Val stared at the Chinese woman across the desk from her, looking hassled, two squabbling children hanging off either arm.

"_What_ do you want?" she asked for the third time. The woman ripped a neatly manicured hand away from who Val assumed was her daughter, gesturing irately in the air as she repeated her request. Her heavy accent made the order extremely difficult to comprehend, which she guessed was the root of the problem overall, but she didn't exactly _like_ the air with which the dark haired lady addressed her. She was trying to look like a princess—the jewels on her neck and faux-silk Oriental style wrap dress suggested this—but Val wasn't fooled. She was probably married to some good-for-nothing piece of criminal slime on vacation in Hong Kong, who'd told her how great his life was in America and whisked her away.

Obviously, this woman was bitter because she'd been lied to. But that was still no excuse to act like a complete bitch.

_As though she's _so_ much better than her surroundings._

_Guess what, lady. You live in the fucking _Narrows_._

Val assumed she was here to pick up her clothes – this was a dry-cleaner's after all, and what else would she be doing here? – but she'd either lost her ticket or hadn't thought to bring it. Val was attempting to communicate to her that the ticket was a necessary part of this transaction.

It was clear, however, that neither woman could even begin to understand the other, so Val simply sighed and swept behind the curtain, thinking _fuck it, just humor her_. She could hear the children complaining to their mother and listened to her snap back at them in rapid Chinese, as she looked through rows of bagged strangers' vestments.

Allowing that passive-aggressive urge to get the better of her, Val deliberately took her sweet-ass time finding the clothes. As she wound her way back through the poorly-illuminated closet, the sound of the children quieted and a steady tapping on the counter took the place of their noise. She could only assume the woman had somehow managed to silence her Satan-spawn little brats and was now clicking her cheap acrylic fingernails all over Val's reception desk to express her _deep_ dissatisfaction with the service here.

Rolling her eyes as the tapping continued, Val snatched the only dry-cleaning which contained an Oriental wrap, disregarding the fact that if she was incorrect in her choice of garment for the _lovely_ patron, she _might_ come off looking like a racist. Without any attempt at haste, she tromped outside, a crisp "Here are your clothes, now leave" halfway out of her mouth.

And she might have actually finished the snub, only the lady wasn't there anymore. Apparently she'd decided that _waiting_ a few seconds for her dry-cleaning just wasn't worth her precious time; or perhaps, wasn't worth tolerating the company. Though Val didn't _really_ blame her. The person who'd come in after her was intimidating on his best days.

He tapped a pen restlessly against the counter, movements precise, the other hand stuffed deep in the pocket of neatly pressed navy slacks. Intentional or not, he had a knack for creating a rather tense, unwelcoming atmosphere about himself, which Val was now certain had been the motivation behind the sudden departure of the Asian princess.

Blue eyes glinting, aloof, from behind rectangular glasses, he cocked her a detached half-smile, indicating their familiarity but also calling attention to the fact that he in no way considered her a peer. A brunette curl dangled against his forehead, having freed itself from the rest of his flawlessly managed silken waves, the only part of him that wasn't immaculately refined. Come to it, that singular imperfection was probably calculated into the whole look, to add an air of… affability or something.

He was a psychologist, after all; he understood what people approached and avoided – what they valued and, above all, what they feared.

The doctor was an acquaintance whom, if nothing else, reasserted Val's wariness around psychologists and psychiatrists. Val had _always_ found them to be… sneaky, almost. _Manipulative_, perhaps, was the word. As such, she usually made it a point to avoid Kithomer Hall, which was the home of the Psychological Sciences Department on her college campus and the place where one was most likely to encounter this specimen of creep before her.

He was gorgeous, she'd give him that. But he was simply too… _weird_ to be attractive.

To that end, Val was always taken by surprise at his presence in the shop. This wasn't exactly the nicest dry-cleaner in Gotham. Surely, with his cozy little office at Arkham Asylum and the added income he made from whatever it was he actually _did_ on campus, he _could_ afford to take his clothing elsewhere. But something kept him coming here, be it familiarity or habit or something else entirely, Val didn't know.

And she didn't particularly care. She didn't even clean the clothes. Let him spend his money where he liked.

"Good morning, Doctor Crane," Val said with that kind of shit-eating grin that customers, generally being class idiots, loved and usually ate right up. Her boss had been getting on her about how she treated the people who came in here and, since the _eminent_ doctor was a regular patron, she was never anything less than gracious with him.

"Hello Miss Terran," he replied vaguely, without so much as missing a beat in the annoying rhythm he was tapping on the desk. The fancy-looking fountain pen he used to do it was so obnoxiously expensive that it only increased his asinine appearance. And then, making it clear he couldn't care less, he sighed and asked, "How are you feeling today?"

Val suddenly felt like one of his patients and stiffened, some defensive instinct kicking in. For no reason she could immediately pin down, it seemed unwise to reveal any personal detail to him, no matter how miniscule. From people's talk, as well as her own experiences with him, she knew that Jonathan Crane was the kind of man who catalogued and stored anything you gave him, and he used your weaknesses against you.

He was also an _enormous _asshole.

"Oh you know," Val replied as generically as possible, shrugging and grabbing the order pad from the drawer. She slapped it on the desk, then remembered her manners and smiled at the psychologist. "What can I do for you?"

"Just the clothes," he said, shifting to kick at a bag filled with dirty belongings at his feet. "One bag." His voice was always hushed and light, the refinement behind it revealing both his upbringing and his education. Val always thought it sounded somewhat restrained, almost like he was hiding something – some deep-seated anger or insanity.

Maybe he was a sociopath. Maybe he was as crazy as his patients.

Or maybe she was just being melodramatic, as Val knew she was occasionally wont to do.

Pushing the thought away, she nodded absently and scribbled down his order, ripping the white paper from the pad and briskly handing him the yellow receipt underneath.

He didn't take it, watching her eyes instead. The fact that he was making her feel vulnerable and transparent was nothing new, though usually he was incredibly uninterested. Today, however, he seemed a bit intrigued by her, which kind of freaked her out. She wondered what he wanted.

He took a short breath and opened his mouth an instant before actually talking. He was always doing that, claiming his turn to speak and giving you time to give him your full attention.

"So what are you doing with your time at the preeminent GSU?"

GSU: Gotham State University, one of the best schools on the east coast. Val had received an academic scholarship there three years ago. It was probably one of the best things that had ever happened to her. The chance to get out of this dump, maybe move up in life with a college degree, was a chance she'd always be grateful for.

"Right now, some Microbiology and Phytology," she said. At his blank look, she simplified. "I'm a Biology major, working in the lab on some nicely funded research projects." She shook the receipt in her hand. He didn't even glance at it.

"And what kind of lab work do they give you there?" he asked.

_Why are you so fucking interested?_

"Oh, you know, this and that." She relished being vague with him; he was the kind of person who hated it. "I'm still narrowing down my focus, so I'm looking into a range of studies. Here's your ticket. You'll need it to get your clothes back."

He stilled at her asperity and met her eyes for a moment before lowering his gaze to the yellow slip she was trying to hand him. He took it from her slowly.

"Biology…" he mused, turning momentarily to look back at the glass door behind him as though watching to see if someone was coming from the street. He faced her again and smiled. No teeth. "When you took my class last year, I was impressed by your enthusiasm for the subject. I'm surprised you're not pursuing the study of the human mind."

_So creepy._

"_Are_ you," she muttered, filing his order with the rest of them before returning her attention to Crane.

A moment passed as she waited for him to hand her his bag. He made no move to do so, but when she remained silent he opened his full mouth slightly and raised his eyebrows at her. His implication was clear. She was to come around the desk and get it.

Val steadied herself, inhaling deeply through her nose and letting it out slowly. Crane had always _gotten_ to her – she hated it whenever he came in – but allowing him to see this irritation would only constitute a failure on her part. So, she smiled tightly and shrugged, trying to tell him what a complete dick he was without actually _saying_ it.

He merely smirked calmly and watched her walk around the desk. She couldn't meet his eye for fear of revealing her carefully guarded, yet certainly growing, irritation with the entire situation.

Since meeting him at GSU, half-assedly teaching Psychology 307, Val had never had much of an affinity for Dr. Crane. He worked full-time at Arkham, but the university's administration held him in extremely high regard and, in part due to the praise he received whenever he walked those old halls, he somehow found time to instruct classes every so often for a full quarter.

She'd never found him to be a _particularly_ good teacher; the favoritism shown him by Jeremiah Arkham was the main reason he was so eminent in this city, not his "prodigious talent."

Of course, Val had to admit that he understood paranoia, phobia and schizophrenia. He was probably an _expert _on those three facets of psychology. That part of the class had, at least, been effective. He was obviously interested in the process of fear.

As is generally the case, Val loathed having to take orders, assignments and criticism from someone she disliked, but her animosity towards the professor did not keep her from making an A in the course, a feat only two others accomplished. She's imagined with relish the sneer on his face as he begrudgingly submitted the shining grade. She'd hoped, at the end of the quarter, that that final victory against the psychologist would be the last experience she'd have with him. When he walked into Lenny's Dry-Cleaning one crisp Autumn afternoon, only two weeks after she'd started working there, it had been a remarkably unpleasant surprise.

But Val was used to him by now. She picked up his bag silently and swept back around the desk.

"It'll be ready in a couple days," she muttered.

"I'll see you then," Crane said, smiling. He moved to turn and walk to the door, but caught himself halfway through and slowly turned back to her. "Are you very _good_ at biology, Miss Terran?"

Val stared at him, unsure of how to answer: humbly or truthfully. Taking the middle road, she shrugged. He seemed to understand. Approaching the counter again, he leaned against it, his voice lowering furtively, one arm supporting his weight while the other hand was once again shoved deep into his pants pocket.

"You're a smart girl," he told her quietly, like it was some kind of secret, like he wasn't one to give praise such as this and she should be grateful. But she knew she was smart. Everyone knew that. It was, possibly, her only strength. "Perhaps you'd be interested in some of the research I'm leading in Kithomer Hall – I'm sure it's nothing like the state-of the-art facilities you've become accustomed to, but we could use some biology-minded assistance." He was poking fun at her, challenging her and subtly complimenting her all at once, and Val found herself momentarily unsure of how to react.

She was certain her poker face had given way to a look of muddled confusion. He'd made certain not to place too much emphasis on the request, keeping his manner detached and his tone light enough that a refusal from her end would not appear to damage his ego.

After what felt like a good thirty seconds of silence, Val decided that her curiosity was going to win the battle over her pride on this rare occasion, and she nodded in response to Crane's offer. She was perplexed, and also slightly angry, unable to shake the feeling that she had just been surreptitiously coerced into something.

The good doctor slid his business card across the desk slowly, tapping it twice with his long fingers. Val picked it up and studied the thick creamy paper and black print. Crane muttered something like "Until next time," and when next she looked up, he was gone.

_So fucking creepy._

* * *

The rotting wood beneath the man's feet protested loudly to the weight being inflicted upon it. Pausing in reaction to the creaking, he snuck more gingerly up the old steps, cautiously watching the crack under the door in front of him_._ Any movement or sound, any darting shadow or flicker of light, would let him know whether he was truly alone.

Rumors had been circulating the Narrows that Carmine Falcone was looking for expansion – whispered in alleyways by men who smelled like cheap wine and cigars; men who no one would miss; men who were _very_ easy to… persuade. Men who were, in reality, not unlike the wannabe gangsters and aging trust fund beneficiaries he had been working for lately.

Even rich, small-minded individuals had agendas; it was just his luck that some agendas required a certain finesse with explosives. He'd laid the groundwork of a criminal reputation by marketing his exclusive skills around the seedier areas of the city, but stage two of _his _agenda had yet to begin… stage two involved _those_ men.

Men like those – low-grade mobsters stumbling home from late night poker games, back to whatever flea-bitten holes they inhabited – were exactly the kind of men you wanted to start with. You find an in with them, gathering information as you went, they tell their friends about you, word spread and suddenly you're face to face with Carmine Falcone, who's saying he thinks you'd make a good member of the team.

After that, the man could start on phase three – the _really _fun part. But that involved money, and Carmine Falcone had enough cash to make Midas blush. His was the richest and most powerful crime family in Gotham at present – it wouldn't hurt to have a foot in the door.

He was known among mob groups already for being a little… _erratic_, living on the edge of every day. But what those narrow-minded idiots refused to understand was that he was _very_ good at crafting plans. Simply because he wasn't striving for a well-known agenda didn't mean he wasn't moving towards his own ends. Sometimes, pretending to do things without forethought was the only way to prevent others from knowing _just_ how convoluted and far-reaching his campaign really was.

It _was_ going to be quite the ride.

But there _were_ steps to follow. And the very next step was to get a place he could call his own; get out from that Buick he'd been living in for the past four months and into an apartment.

Or, as luck would have it, into a house.

The hinges of the door squealed loudly as he pushed it inwards, and he stilled his breathing, listening intently for the slightest sound from the empty darkness. The entrance hadn't been locked, though there was no significance in that. It didn't mean no one was home – instead, they could be incredibly stupid. Or better, dangerous enough that a burglar was not a serious concern even in a neighborhood such as this.

The man paused for a long moment before taking a guarded step across the threshold. The inside of the abandoned house smelled musty, stale, as though the tenants had been vacant for far longer than the two weeks he'd been told about. Apparently, this place used to belong to some gangster named Jonny, who'd taken his wife and kids from it when he'd gotten in deep with a rival group. They'd gone into hiding, but after no word from them for eight days it was assumed they'd been executed.

The man shut the front door behind him, closing himself in darkness and listening to silence echo through the space around him. He'd run a thorough check of all the rooms, but he knew instinctively that he was alone. The house stood silent, the owner was deceased.

As such, it now belonged to him. And when things belonged to him, they stayed that way.

The man felt the scars pull taught against his cheeks as, despite himself, he smiled.

* * *

There he was.

Sitting only a table away, all sexy and curly-haired and studious—being his usual genius self and looking hotter than should be legal while doing it.

Wallace Flannigan. He'd tutored Val in physics during her sophomore year, and the two had made a definite connection… She'd never had conversations like the ones she had with him, intelligent and exciting, hours long but never boring. He'd had a girlfriend then, and so the sexual tension she felt, if it was requited, couldn't be acted upon. But now he was single and Val had half a mind to knock on his dorm room door that very evening and strip the clothes off of his muscular frame.

But of course, she wouldn't. Since childhood, Val's experiences had taught her that she faded into the background more often than not, and she'd come to accept this aspect of her life. She wouldn't classify herself as shy, more of a closet extrovert just a little short on courage. And she _would_ have the guts if only anything would ever actually go her way, or if she were prettier, or a little taller, or the kind of beautiful that turned heads when she walked into a room; the kind of beautiful her sister was.

Suddenly, Wallace looked up and met Val's gaze. She could feel her face flush bright red, but she knew averting her eyes would only make her look like some gawking weirdo, so instead she held eye contact, smiled and gave him a little wave. Much to her surprise, he smiled back, grabbed his belongings, and strolled confidently over to her booth.

"Hey, long time no see, Valeria," he said with that effortless smirk which always made her heart speed up its rhythm. With any other person, she would correct them, and tell them to call her "Val," but Wallace Flannigan could call her whatever he liked. He could call her Red, a nickname she despised, and she'd be totally cool with it. Jesus, Mary and Joseph did he exude charm.

"Yeah, I guess we've both been pretty busy. How's the Astrophysics going?" Val hoped she'd managed to keep the quiver out of her voice.

"Great, just finished some work in the Observatory. And I imagine you're still working with Doctor Howard and Professor Hinkle in the lab?" He had an offhand way of making a girl feel important, keeping his marbled blue eyes glued to hers in an affable manner.

The fact that he remembered so much about her was another great thing about Wallace – he was an academic prodigy, nothing short of genius; polite, charming, funny, and yet seductive. He had a way of quirking an eyebrow, tilting his head down and looking up at you that could only be described as sexual.

Their conversation was light and easy, eventually falling into the familiar subjects Val had missed discussing. Even the way he spoke was attractive, his low voice smooth and astonishingly easy to listen to. He was self-deprecating but confident, and listened as well as he contributed. There was nothing _false_ or put-on about Wallace. Having his full attention was like being the star of some wonderful show you'd waited all of your life to be a part of.

Their conversation was cut short when Val realized the time.

"Shit," she muttered, glancing at the clock. "I'm sorry, I have to go. Lab. We're doing some really intricate pipetting today and Professor Hinkle needs my steady hands, I guess. His words, not mine." She flashed him her best smile, giggled in what she hoped was a cute way at her own stupid joke, and he paused a moment before responding. Was that disappointment registering on his face? Was he sad to see her go?

"Well, I won't keep you then. But, uh, I'd love to stop in some time and take a look at some of your research. If I won't be distracting you from important work."

_Distracting me? You have no idea…_

Val: picture of ecstasy. He was expressing interest in seeing her again, and she had something to look forward to—something to break up the monotony of long hours in the lab. She was sure Wallace could hear the rush of her pulse as her blood pressure and heart rate rose to new heights.

"Absolutely!" Oh no, too eager. Calm down, Valeria, hold back a bit. "I mean, I'd be happy to show you some of our work – it'll be nice to explain it to someone who'll actually _understand_ what I'm saying, for once." At this quip, he laughed lightly, his perfect teeth displayed behind full lips.

"Well then, I'll have to come by sometime."

"Great. After 7:30 is best; that's usually when Doctor Howard leaves me to it, so we can have time to talk then."

He nodded once in agreement, giving Val a quick hug before they went their separate ways.

As she walked away, Val felt the skin where he'd touched her tingling, and a knot of anticipation formed in her gut.

This was going to be an _awesome_ week.

* * *

This was going to be an _interesting_ week…

The scarred man had been living in the abandoned house for three days before any trouble found him. Actually, he was surprised it had taken this long. The previous owner hadn't been big news, but he'd had plenty of enemies who knew when he disappeared and would love to seize his property.

So, when the door was kicked in at one in the morning, the man wasn't exactly _surprised_.

_Irritated_, maybe, but not _surprised_.

He stood in the darkness of the living room, the shadows concealing him from the mobsters now crossing the threshold, their weak flashlights cutting through the night. Their voices died to whispers as they looked around, finding a still, dark, and apparently vacant split level.

The man could feel their unease as they began their search. On some level he was sure they knew the house was occupied – they wouldn't be so quiet if they didn't – but none of them wanted to show that fear in front of his _friends_.

He crouched in the corner, in the space between the arm of the sofa and the wall, and watched five silhouettes enter – big guys, tough, perhaps a little hardened. There was one in particular the man was wary of – a powerful gangster, over six foot five, with bulging biceps and massive shoulders – but the others were going to be a piece of cake. The scarred man immediately recognized the big guy's red hair and familiar face - he went by the name Jimmy O'Neill, a cousin to the leader of the Rileys, the Irish mob.

Oh this was _too_ perfect.

"Split up and search the place," Jimmy ordered, and his underlings immediately stomped off in different directions, some pulling pieces from their waistbands, looking threatening, cocky.

_Ooh_, thought the scarred man. _They have _guns_._

The house was not a large one—two stories, cramped space—and the man knew the layout by heart, having paced its halls relentlessly since arrival. He slipped upstairs first, in the shadow of the two thugs who were checking out the top floor. Fingering his favorite little knife, one he'd had since before he could accurately remember, the man followed one O'Neill into the cramped bathroom, where the idiot was actually checking behind the shower curtain like a squatter would find that the best place to hide.

This one was just a kid, really – seventeen, maybe eighteen years old – and obviously hadn't yet earned his stripes. He was fidgety, jumpy, his shock of blond hair sticking up in all directions. The man watched him from the doorway as he started to mess around in the medicine cupboard, looking perhaps for some prescription drugs to try to get a little high.

Fruitless, of course; the scarred had cleared each medicine cabinet as soon as he'd gotten there.

He crept up behind the O'Neill kid, who was cursing to himself at the lack of substance, and stood there for a moment, fighting the urge to laugh. This kid's deficient awareness made it almost _too_ easy.

Done with his search – adding a final "fuck!" for lack of eloquence – the mobster suddenly swung the cabinet door closed, exposing the mirror on the other side. In the dark bathroom only shadows reigned, but the boy could see enough to realize he wasn't alone a split second before the man clamped a hand over his mouth. Savoring it, he cut a deep slit along the sweaty neck, severing from the voice box to the jugular.

The O'Neill hardly squeaked as blood gushed between the man's gloved fingers, warm and wet and sticky, landing in thick droplets on the pristine tile floor. It was a taste of the sublime – the way the boy's heat and life flooded into his hands, the gurgle of the last dying breath, the smell of sweat and iron and fear… Being up close and personal with a murder was far… _more_ than anything else. Watching the life disappear from a man's eyes, understanding that it was your doing, seeing the raw truth of emotion beneath that ever-present _forgery_ of human existence, was seeing into another man's soul. Metaphorically, anyway. The _soul_, the way religious people understood it, didn't exist.

Point was, people were laid bare by death… and there was no greater _thrill_ than to be privy to their true faces.

Was it any wonder the man had chosen assassination as his way of life?

And saying he was _good_ at what he did… well, that would be an understatement.

The scarred man clicked his teeth and let the body slide to the ground, thinking how his boots would track bloodstains all over the carpet. He took a deep breath through his nose, savoring the thump of the corpse to the linoleum, and looked up into the eyes of his reflection. A spray of blood from his victim had hit the mirror and the scarlet specks left slow streaks down the glass, one of which he leisurely reached out to touch with a gloved finger, rubbing the thick liquid between thumb and pointer, thinking. He turned his attention back to his mirror image, stepping closer to inspect the details of the face before him.

Blond hair, greasy and wavy and disheveled, framed dark brown eyes, high cheekbones and full lips. Women, many women, used to tell him he was handsome; perhaps he had been once, but he scarcely had an opinion on the matter. He'd long since stopped feeling any emotional connection to the sight of his own visage; looking at himself was like looking at a stranger who vaguely resembled his father… or the memory he had of his father. It was subject to change, of course.

Only the scars evoked anything in him, those twisted ropes of skin that snaked from the corners of his mouth to his cheekbones. His Chelsea smile. His Glasgow grin. Looking at them, he could recall perfect rage, red and white-hot, a powerful, wonderful burst of intensity. At that moment the universe had cracked, shattered – it had torn him apart with it. And above it all, there was the overwhelming urge to laugh.

He ripped his gaze from the mirror and turned around, running a shaking hand through his hair. Suddenly feeling wild for no discernible reason, the man smacked his lips with displeasure, wanting just to rip and stab and tear at everything in this house, and then set the thing on fire and watch it burn to the ground.

He thought of the rest of the O'Neills in the house.

"Four to go…"

Maybe he should keep one of the mobsters alive. Word might spread to the _Rileys_. Now _that_ was an idea the man liked. Those arrogant little Micks already knew who he was, but they _seriously_ underestimated what he was willing to do. Every time one of the red-haired bastards approached him, he wished he could send a message by the body part, but their forces were large and they held a grudge. The man wasn't quite ready to sever his every bridge with the Irish mob, but their interest in his little side business was maddeningly persistent.

This was a delicate situation, after all – he needed in with the Falcones, and the Falcones wouldn't be happy if they found out he'd done work for a rival mob. Besides, he had all the revenue he needed for now, thanks boys.

They were already moving on to threats; the man had lost two teeth last week. At least they'd seemed slightly unnerved by the laughing.

No, the Rileys had to be told, loud and clear, that the scarred man was not to be _fucked_ with. That was why the arrival of five O'Neills here tonight was so hilariously fortuitous. They were cousins to the Rileys. The two groups were close; if one was taken out, it might be quite a blow to the other…

* * *

Some time later, the scarred man sat on the floor in a bloodstained living room, legs stretched out in front of him, a bit like a toddler among his toys. He played with his knife, relaxed and pensive, smearing blood up and down the silver blade with his fingertip and humming off-key under his breath. After a long moment, he inhaled slowly through his nose and tilted his head back to look at the ceiling, his pupils huge and dark.

_That_ had been _good_. Soon there would be the clean-up, but for now the man sat in silence, basking in the afterglow. The sun was rising, casting rays of light through the half closed blinds. It was a new day, and he was determined not to waste it.

Today, things would change.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I've never written Crane before - was he in character? Let me know what you think so far, pleeeeease. xox**


End file.
